The Muse

            The muse. I seldom talk about the muse. I suppose every artist should have an opinion about the muse. I find it interesting when artist offer their opinions regarding the subject. They tend to become animated, expressive, philosophical, and even poetic when they talk about the muse. The muse isn’t all that important to me. I seldom if ever think about her or him. It’s romantic to ponder and it has a long history in art, but for me it’s the process that keeps me interested. The muse is everywhere at anytime, but usually when you least expect it, so pay attention. That’s my philosophy when it comes to the muse.

However, when I saw an online ad written by a young lady wanting to be a muse, I responded.

            “I can always use a muse,” I answered.

            “What’s your medium?” she answered back.

             I'm a amused.

First Light

I woke up early this morning. It was four when I woke up. I tried to go back to sleep, but I didn’t have it in me. I checked my email, and put in some work on a bag of sunflower seeds that I had bought earlier in the evening. I had one handful of seeds that led to another. I couldn’t stop myself. Sunflower seeds are addicting. I sat there at my computer reading the news and cracking seeds.

            Soon it was the first light. With the first light the birds became animated. You’d think I was in Africa, not Los Angeles. There was a baby hawk squealing in a tree, and blue jay hacking. I was lying there listening to doves and finches and sparrows. There was an orchestra of birds singing. The night shift had ended and the day shift had begun. It was the celebration of the sun. It was so beautiful, it put me to sleep.  

Tree Man

I was at my Saturday gig in Venice Beach. All was calm for Venice, when our singer mid song yelled out, “there’s Tree Man!”

            I looked out the window and I saw a tall figure dressed like tree. He was on stilts. The stilts made him at least ten feet tall. He was a slender tree. He’s face was painted green and he had leaves and branches coming off of him. He was dancing on the boardwalk as we played. I laughed hardily.

            “Come sing a song Tree Man!” our singer said.

            Next thing I knew Tree Man was ducking down to lower himself through the front door to the bar. He took a few stiff steps towards the stage. He grabbed the microphone, and started to sing.

            “Sitting on the dock of the bay, I’ll be watching the tide roll away.” Tree Man had a good voice. I looked outside while he was singing. There was a short disheveled man with a mustache balancing a thirty-four ounce half filled plastic water bottle on his head.